by Shaun Hutson
“Will you be able to claim it back off your insurance?”
Andy nodded.
“Kids these days ...” James Connor said, allowing the sentence to trail off.
“I knew you were going to say that, Jim.” Andy grinned.
“Well, it’s true. They don’t respect anything. If I’d done some’ thing like that when I was fifteen, my father would have sorted me out.”
“Things are different now, Jim. The parents don’t even know where the bloody kids are half the time and the ones who do don’t care.”
“Have you and Ronni thought anymore about kids?”
“Ask Ronni.”
“I have. Now I’m asking you.”
“I’d like them, but Ronni doesn’t seem too keen. Perhaps you can talk her round, Jim.” He patted his father-in-law on the shoulder as they turned and headed back towards the house.
“She stopped listening to me a long time ago, Andy.”
Both men laughed.
When they entered the house, Ronni was in the kitchen rinsing her mug under the tap.
“I’ve put all your shopping away, Dad,” she said.
“I could have done that,” he assured her.
“I know you could, but it’s done now. I’ll call in again tomorrow.”
“I’ve told you before, Ronni, you don’t have to call every single day.”
“And I’ve told you it’s no trouble.”
Connor looked at Andy.
“See, I told you.” He shrugged.
Andy grinned.
“Have you two been talking about me?” Ronni smiled.
“We’ve got more important things to discuss, haven’t we, Jim?” Andy chided.
Connor nodded.
Ronni kissed her father and he stood at the door until they both climbed into the car and drove off.
The sitting room seemed so silent again.
James Connor reached for the TV remote and raised the volume, driving the solitude away.
He sat in his chair, gently turning the wedding band on his finger, occasionally glancing at the photos of his wife that smiled back at him.
Outside, the first droplets of rain began to fall.
AT FIRST, DONNA Freeman didn’t hear the banging on the bedroom door.
She stretched beneath the sheets, the earphones of the Sony Discman firmly wedged in place.
Only when the Sheryl Crow album finished did she finally detect the sound.
She heard her name being called.
“What is it?” she said irritably, reaching for the other CDs beside the bed.
“It’s twelve o’clock in the afternoon.”
The voice belonged to her father.
So?
“Donna?” he persisted.
“Yeah, right.”
“Get up. It’s twelve ‘ ‘... o’clock in the afternoon. Yeah, you already said that once.”
“Give your mum a hand with the Sunday dinner,” her father ordered.
She heard the baby crying downstairs.
“I don’t want any dinner,” Donna called back.
“Come on, you can’t lay in there all fucking day.”
“I’m up,” she lied.
She heard the door handle rattling. Saw it turning.
“Unlock the door.”
“Why?”
“You don’t need a lock on it, anyway. Come on, get up.”
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
“Donna?”
“Yes,” she called back angrily.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
There was silence for a moment, then she heard her father’s footfalls on the stairs.
She reached for another CD, slipped it into the Discman and jammed the earpieces back into place.
Liam Harper waited at the end of the short path that led to the yellow-painted front door.
It always looked to him as if someone had smeared the wood with a coating of pus.
He grinned to himself at his own analogy and continued to gaze at the door.
Terry Mackenzie emerged a moment later, slammed the pus-coloured door behind him and hauled his bike from the overgrown grass of the front garden.
He joined Harper and the two of them rode down the path to the end of the street.
Tony Morton was waiting there for them.
“Your dad will be here soon,” Claire Brown said, watching as her son pulled on the Levi jacket.
“So?” Graham Brown grunted, heading for the door.
“He said he’d take you and your sister to the pictures this afternoon.”
“Let him take her, then. I couldn’t give a fuck.”
Claire Brown gritted her teeth.
“Do you have to use that language, Graham?” she hissed.
Tell him I didn’t want to go. It’ll only be some kids’ film anyway.”
“He can hardly take you to see Scream 3, can he? Neither of you are old enough. He can’t afford much with him being out of work. You should be grateful. Anyway, your sister likes the pictures.”
“Then let her go with him. But I’m not going.”
“Give him a chance, Graham.”
“Me? You were the one who fucking threw him out because he was always hitting you.”
“I didn’t throw him out.”
“Then how come he doesn’t live here anymore?”
“Your dad and I agreed to separate, you know that.”
“He still comes back here anytime he wants. He spent the night earlier in the week, didn’t he? He comes back here, gets what he wants, then fucks off again. He couldn’t give a fuck about us anyway. He didn’t even when he lived here.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? When he comes home he always beats the shit out of you and you’re still stupid enough to let him in. I’ll tell you something else: do you know why the only place he ever takes us is the fucking pictures? It’s because for two hours he doesn’t have to talk to us. He doesn’t know what to talk to us about.1 He held his mother’s gaze.
“Once a month he turns up here and expects us to act like his little family again. Fuck him.”
Claire Brown reached out to stop her son as he opened the front door, then she stopped and held up both hands as if in surrender.
The door slammed behind him.
Tina Craven prodded her food disinterestedly and gazed blankly at the TV screen.
Elsewhere in the small living room, her two younger brothers, her mother and her father were also watching the flickering images. The two giggling boys, however, seemed more intent on jabbing their elbows into each other, each trying to knock the other’s plate from his lap.
One of them pushed against her.
Tina shoved him back and he bumped into the other boy almost spilling his food onto the floor.
“Watch what you’re doing,” her mother snapped.
“He started it,” the younger boy protested, licking gravy from his thumb.
Tina put her plate on the coffee table and sat back on the sofa.
“Aren’t you hungry?1 her mother wanted to know.
Tina shook her head.
“Take your plate out,” her father added.
“You can start the washing up.”
She got to her feet, picked up the plate and padded through into the kitchen.
“And put the kettle on too,” called her father.
Tina raised two fingers in the direction of the living room.
She hated Sundays.
Same routine.
Same shit. Different day.
She filled the kettle, then spun both taps and squirted Fairy Liquid into the sink.
She looked up at the wall clock.
She’d wait another hour.
The pound coins landed on the kitchen table with a thud. Carl Thompson watched them roll around, then looked at his father.
Ross Thompson was pulling on a leather jacket.
It smelled new.
He dug in the pocket and foun
d another coin that he tossed amongst the others.
“Get yourself some fish and chips or something,” he told his son.
“What time will you be back?” Thompson wanted to know.
His father shrugged.
“We’re going out for a meal later,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
Thompson gathered the money and dropped it into his own pocket.
“Anything else you need?” his father asked.
Not from you.
Thompson shook his head.
“See you then,” the older man said and retreated from the room.
Thompson heard the door close behind him.
“Give her one from me,” he murmured.
He waited a moment, then reached for his mobile phone.
“YOU’RE SPYING AGAIN.”
The voice behind her made Ronni jump.
She turned to see George Errington standing behind her. He grinned and squeezed past her, heading for a chair in the day room.
“You scared me, George,” Ronni told him, smiling.
“That’s because you were miles away,” he told her, opening the paper and scanning the headlines.
“Busy with your spying.”
“What do you mean?” she asked with mock indignation.
“You do it every Sunday. Every time someone comes to visit one of us.” He nodded towards the far side of the day room where Barbara Eustace sat in her wheelchair facing a smartly dressed man in his thirties. Molly sat on a chair beside her, curled up like a child’s toy. The dog looked as if it was asleep, but every so often it would shuffle around, getting more comfortable.
“I’m not spying on anyone, George,” Ronni repeated.
“I’m just curious.”
“If you say so. If that’s what you want to call it.”
“And what would you call it?” He tapped his nose and grinned.
“I was just watching Barbara and her son talking,” Ronni confessed.
“If I was her I wouldn’t let him come within ten yards of me.”
“Why not?”
“His own mother and he can’t even be bothered to look after her. It was him who wanted her here. He even paid for her to come.”
“How do you know?”
“Janice Holland was talking to her last week. Barbara told her everything. He’s some big shot in the City. Rolling in it. But Barbara’s a bit of an inconvenience to him.” Errington raised his eyebrows.
“He doesn’t want her around when he’s entertaining his clients and his colleagues. So he paid to put her in here.”
Ronni looked on silently.
“That’s kids for you,” Errington continued.
“I’m pleased I never had any.”
“You were married though, weren’t you, George?”
“Twice.” He adjusted his glasses and peered over them at Ronni.
“Married twice. Divorced twice.” He smiled.
“And no kids?”
He shook his head.
“Have you got any family anywhere? Brothers or sisters?”
Again he shook his head.
“You could say I’m the last of the line, Ronni. I think that goes for most of us in here.”
“I saw somebody with Jack earlier.”
“His son’s here today. He arrived about an hour ago. He’s taken Jack out for a pint. He’s a good lad. He comes once in a while.”
“I didn’t know Jack had been married.”
“He wasn’t. He met some girl.. .” Errington allowed the sentence to trail off as he shrugged his shoulders.
“They lived together, just never married.” He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Colin’s got family, hasn’t he?”
“He never hears from them. I don’t think any of them live locally. The rest of us are on our own.”
“You’re not on your own as long as you’re here, George.” She squeezed his shoulder.
“Is there anything else you want to know or can I get on with my paper?” He smiled.
“Sorry to have disturbed you,” she said indignantly.
As she turned away she glanced once more towards the far side of the day room.
Barbara Eustace sat motionless in her wheelchair as her son continued to speak.
“How CAN HE do that to her?” Ronni said reproachfully, sipping at her tea.
She and Alison Dean were seated in the staff kitchen on opposite sides of the small, Formica-topped table.
“Try seeing it from his point of view, Ronni,” Alison offered.
“Do you agree with it, then? Would you stick your parents in a home rather than look after them yourself?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
“I don’t know how he can live with himself.”
“We don’t know all the details, Ronni. Barbara’s probably better off here. At least she gets twenty-four-hour care if she needs it. Anyway, you’re always talking about getting your dad to move here so you’re in no position to slag off Barbara’s son.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t got the time or money to give him the attention he needs in his own house. Barbara’s son has.”
“You don’t know that.”
“According to George Errington he’s rolling in it.”
“George probably doesn’t know all the details either. You know what he’s like.”
Ronni sipped at her tea, then dunked a digestive in the steaming liquid.
“So, what would you do if one of your parents couldn’t look after themselves?” she asked finally.
“Would you try to take care of them? Get them to move in with you?”
“Ronni, you can’t answer a question like that until it happens.”
“Hypothetically.”
Alison shrugged.
“If 1 couldn’t look after them myself, and we could afford it, I’d be happy to see them here, at Shelby House.”
Ronni nodded almost imperceptibly.
“You know how well the residents here are treated, Ronni. And most of them are here out of choice. Their own choice.”
“If we had the room, I’d still like my dad living at home with me.”
“He’s probably happier where he is.”
That’s what he always says.”
“Then why don’t you believe him? It might be the same in Barbara’s case. She’s probably happier here than if she was living with her son.”
Ronni gazed at the soggy biscuit for a second before pushing the remains into her mouth.
“You make it sound as if you feel guilty because you’re not with your dad twenty-four hours a day,” Alison offered.
“I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about,” Ronni said a little too hastily.
“I didn’t say you had. No one could have done more for him since your mum died.”
“I worry about him, Alison, that’s all. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him.”
Alison reached across the table and squeezed Ronni’s hand.
“He’ll be fine,” she said softly.
Ronni nodded and brushed her brown hair away from her face.
Alison got to her feet, crossing to the sink to rinse her cup.
“Don’t worry.” She smiled and made her way out of the small kitchen.
Ronni heard her footfalls echoing away up the corridor.
THE IMPACT OF his fist against the other boy’s jawbone sent jarring pain up Graham Brown’s arm. But the discomfort was forgotten as he struck again, this time opening a cut on his opponent’s eyebrow.
Blood began to run freely from the wound and the sight of the crimson fluid seemed to galvanize Brown to even greater efforts.
He held the boy in a headlock and slammed his fist repeatedly into his face, droplets of blood now flying in all directions.
Some of it spattered those watching.
Brown felt sudden excruciating pain from his right l
eg.
He shouted angrily, but the pain seemed to intensify.
The skin of his inner thigh was being pinched so hard it felt as if someone had clamped a vice on it.
He let go of his opponent and pushed him away.
The other boy his face already cut in half a dozen places -spat blood and ran at Brown, who was still rubbing at his throbbing thigh.
They collided and crashed into the wall of the school gymnasium.
Brown’s head snapped backwards and cracked hard against the brickwork, momentarily stunning him.
His opponent wasn’t slow to react and drove his left foot into Brown’s groin so hard he felt it connect with the pubic bone.
Brown shrieked and clutched at his injured genitals, the breath suddenly torn from him.
All around him shouts of encouragement rang in his ears.
“Fucking kill him!”
“Rip his fucking head off!”
All good advice.
Others in the playground were gathered, engrossed, around the contest.
The two contestants faced each other with expressions of fury.
“You’re fucking dead,” Brown hissed, rubbing his testicles.
“Come on then,” snarled his opponent.
They ran at each other.
The collision was greeted by a great cheer from the watching hordes.
Brown managed to drive his forehead into the face of his opponent, the impact staggering him too.
But the other boy came off worse.
His nose was pulped by the impact.
Blood gushed from the smashed appendage. It soaked into the front of his ripped shirt and dripped onto his mud-grimed shoes.
He teetered uncertainly for a moment, his head spinning. Then he wiped one palm across his bloodied nose and brought the hand away smeared with crimson.
“Teachers!” someone shouted and a number of the onlookers darted away from the conflict.
Others stayed to see the outcome.
Two teachers were rushing across the playground towards the melee.
Others in the playground stepped aside to allow them through.
Some even followed.
Brown reached into his trouser pocket and pulled something free.
There was a swish-click as he pushed the blade release button on the flick-knife.
“Come on then, cunt,” he hissed and swiped at the other boy, who took several steps back.
“Do him!” someone shouted helpfully.
Brown struck out again. He caught the boy across the ear with the point of the blade: the lobe was cut cleanly through and fresh blood spurted into the air.
